


The Audition

by the_most_beautiful_broom



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: The Voice AU, emori week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-18 03:15:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16109618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_most_beautiful_broom/pseuds/the_most_beautiful_broom
Summary: emori needs to get out of her town and away from her life. she wasn't given this voice for nothing, and maybe the competition will be her ticket out.





	The Audition

**Author's Note:**

> The song Emori auditions with is 'Sky Full of Song' by Florence and the Machine and everyone should listen to it because it's everything.

“Alright, so we’ll roll the cameras, and when we point to you, say your name and where you’re from. Big smiles now, got it?”

The waiting room for all the contestants is buzzing with nervous energy and cracking warm-ups. Pitch pipes float over the din, as people crowd in front of mirrors, smudging eyeliner and lipstick and cheeks.

They roll the cameras.

“My name’s Emori,” she says, remembering that she’s supposed to smile, but she knows it’ll feel stretched, so she doesn’t. “Um, I’m supposed to say where I’m from, but what matters is that I’m here, right?”

Here, at the Nevada regional blind auditions for The Voice. Four of the greatest singers of the time, spanning generations and genres, offering to amplify one person’s sound.

It has to be hers.

The producer emerges from behind the camera, his eyes narrowing as he tries to decide if he’ll make her reshoot or not. Emori blinks at him, face unchanging, and a grin splits his face. “Edgy! I like it.”

She really doesn’t care if he does or doesn’t, but saying so would just drive the point home, so she just nods slightly.

“Okay, Emily—”

“Emori,” she interrupts quietly.

“Sure,” he corrects. “Emori. So, where’s your family? Who’s here with you?”

Someone’s scales are flat, someone’s reciting Twelfth Night, someone’s wailing that the satin of her dress has wrinkled. None of the someones belong to her.

Emori purses her lips.

“I’m here for me,” she says, the pride in her voice unmistakable. “Hopefully the judges will be too.”

“So. Edgy.” The producer mouths at the guy holding the reflector out of frame.

“That’s just great, Em,” he says energetically. “What an inspiration.”

“I’ll mention you in my memoir,” she mutters, and his eyes light up.

“Oh, Murphy’s gonna love you. Are you hoping his chair will turn? Which of the judges would be your dream pick?”

That’s the question of the hour, isn’t it.

Thelonious Jaha, with more CMA’s than any other artist, who got his start crooning national anthems at rodeos on the Texas circuit. Now you can't go into a Cracker Barrel without hearing one of his hits. The man’s team always leans heavily on the country side of things, but he picks artists who wear their heart on their sleeves.

Harper McIntyre, America’s sweetheart. Beautiful, bubbly, kind, the pop princess on the panel. She makes a good show for the cameras, flipping blonde hair and flashing a gorgeous smile, but her mentoring sessions with her team show her to be incredibly empathetic and intuitive.

Becca, the Prima Donna. If the other coaches are stars, she’s the sun—constant, powerful, undeniable. One of Julliard’s most accomplished, she picks her team off of technical skill and honed tone. Her calm demeanor masks a deep love of the arts, and it isn’t uncommon for the camera to pan to her during a performance, wiping a demure tear from her cheek with a French-manicured hand.

And then there’s John Murphy, rocker.

What else is there to say about him? He’s good—crazy levels of talented—and he always picks the oddballs for his team. The eccentric ones, the ones who growl too heavy, whose voices are strained, who go just a little sharp on the bridge. He’s won more seasons than any of the other coaches.

Who does she want, who's her dream; that'd been the question, right?

Emori tilts her head, a hint of a smile finally on her face. “Being here’s the dream,” she says, shrugging. “I’ll be happy if any chair turns.”

“Someone will turn,” the producer says soothingly. “Alright, so now the real question: why are you here? What do you want from The Voice?”

She wants out.

Out of the town that doesn’t wanted her, but hasn’t let her leave. Out of the people that know her story, know her scars, know her shame. Knew her parents. Out of the pitying looks and the clucking tongues. She wants to lift her head to feel the sun on her face, not because she has no choice but to look proud, to make the whispers stop. She wants people to recognize her voice, not her story. She wants to show girls like her that they are enough. That they can get out, that they’re stronger, that they’ll be seen. That there aren’t any imperfections that they have to fix.

Emori shakes her head, her hair falling slightly. “The song I’m going to sing,” she begins, knowing it’s a diversion, but that if the producer sticks with it, there’ll be payout. “is about being so far above everything in your life that it all fades. That you need to be grounded again, because otherwise the galaxy is too much. I…I’m not sure what that’s like. The galaxy’s a little bigger than Vegas, right?”

The crew chuckles like they were supposed to.

Emori sits a little taller. “The Voice,” she says, like she’s considering it for the first time, “will take me there. Away, higher, farther. I’m ready for it.”

They’re silent.

Then the producer makes a clicking sound with his teeth and the reflector almost hits her head as the cameras shut off and everyone moves.

“Perfect, Em,” the producer beams. “Aloof, with a hint of vulnerability. They’re going to love that.”

“I certainly hope so,” she mumbles, unclipping her microphone. “Okay, who do I give this to?”

“Here, I can take—”

The intern doesn’t mean to recoil.

But when he steps from behind her, to grab the microphone from her, he’s surprised by her hand. He looks away quickly, jaw clenching, as he stutters. Carefully takes the microphone from her, pretending he didn’t notice.

It stopped stinging a while ago.

Emori hops off the stool, rolling her neck as she walked over to the queue. She’s number 23; 22 people will have gone before her by the time she’s on that stage. She’s seen a couple of people leave in tears, heard the screams from the studio audience when all the chairs turn. The uproarious laughter when Murphy says something snide to Thelonious, or when Harper swipes a contestant out from both of them.

Number 19 is called.

A man with a banjo leans over to hug his wife. She kisses his cheek, and a little girl with dark glasses claps excitedly. They’re led to a side room while the man is led out to the studio.

There’s a quiet when he walks out, and then the plucking of a simple melody floods the overhead speakers.

He goes to Thelonious.

Number 20 is a duet, a brother and sister who’ve been harmonizing since they could talk. Nobody turns, but Harper tells them sweetly to try again in a couple of seasons.

21 is a woman from New Orleans with a beautiful timbre in her belt; Becca turns around immediately for her and the others let her have her.

“22, you’re up; 23, standby!”

The call comes over the speakers and Emori takes the microphone from the aide.

The man before her is in his late 50s; he sings a Bruce Springsteen song that falls just short of a chair turn.

They they call 23.

Emori holds her breath in the wing, blows it out slowly. Walks onto the stage, her boots echoing on the wooden floor. The studio is quiet, and the only light is the spotlight on the stage and on the four chairs in front of her.

Another slow inhale, another long exhale.

Her song starts off a Capella and Emori closes her eyes, lifting her face to the crowd. She hears a mutter run over them when she takes her hand from behind her back.

Blind auditions, she thinks, the judges don’t see me.

Maybe for the first time in her life, someone will hear her before they see her.

She wets her lips, looks over at the band. The pianist and the guitarist are poised, waiting for her, but she has a bit to go on her own.

Her voice breaks over the silent studio, loud, trilling, strong.

_How deeply are you sleeping, or are you still awake?_

Immediately, there’s a smash.

Then another and the crowd roars and Harper is on her feet yelling angrily by the time Thelonious’ chair turns. Emori feels her breath leave her, and she clutches her stomach, forcing the next words out on air she doesn’t have.

_A good friend told me you’ve been staying out so late._

“Are you kidding me??” Harper is indignant, hair flying. “She’s mine, Jaha; are you kidding me?”

Jaha laughs, shakes his head, and Emori’s lungs fill.

_Be careful, oh my darling, be careful what it takes._

_From what I’ve seen so far the good ones always seem to break._

“Wow,” Jaha says quietly, and Harper sits sharply, pouting.

Emori closes her eyes, her free hand covering her eyes. They turned, two of them turned. For her. She’s in this, on The Voice. 

_And I was screaming at my father; you were screaming at me._

“Yas, babe,” Harper calls, and the guitar starts to come in.

_And I could feel your anger from way across the sea._

Thelonious whistles on the soft high note, and Harper’s grinning broadly.

_And I was kissing strangers; I was causing such a scene._

_Oh the heart it hides such unimaginable things._

The audience is swaying, side to side, feeling the energy of the song. The beautiful melody that means her dreams, pouring out of her, over them, like a blessing.

_Grab me by my ankles; I’ve been flying for too long._

_I couldn’t hide from the thunder in a sky full of song._

A backup singer comes in to echo her, a beautiful sound that’s almost like a wail and and Emori feels her voice build. This is what she’s wanted, what she’s chasing, the lift. The flying.

_And I want you so badly, but you could be anyone._

Her voice cracks a bit as the cadence falls. Anyone, anyone, anyone.

_I couldn’t hide from the thunder in a sky full of song._

And her it is, the refrain again, the make or break moment.

She has two judges and forty seconds left; the guitar is louder and the wailing is louder and Emori’s hand falls as her head lifts.

_Hold me down._

She sings and the crowd is yelling as they’re swaying and she’s never felt this free.

_I’m so tired now; aim your arrow at the sky._

The backup singer softly chants and it’s swelling in Emori, this weightlessness.

_Take me down; I’m too tired now._

_Leave me where I lie._

There’s another verse but not the time for it and so she goes up the octave.

_Hold me down._

She sings and then someone’s screaming and it’s another crash and Becca has turned. Becca, the star of every opera worth knowing, who’s the pinnacle of perfection, has turned for a key change that she’s sung. Emori drops the microphone for a second because Becca is smiling, smiling at her, nodding in approval. Her hands on her heart.

Emori swallows heavily, recovering, pushing higher and harder still, belting now.

_Take me down, I’m too tired now, leave me where I lie._

Her hand is out to Becca and the crowd is yelling, and she realizes it’s not for her, it’s at Murphy.

They want him to turn.

But she’s almost out of time.

_I thought I was flying, but maybe I’m dying tonight._

She sings on a whisper, voice soft and breaking, and Harper’s on her feet again.

_I thought I was flying, but maybe I’m dying tonight._

Thelonious is standing too, applauding with the crowd and it’s too much. Emori turns from the stage, lifts her arms to the band, breathes out the last line.

_I thought I was flying, but maybe I’m dying tonight._

The piano fades, the guitar fades, and she lets the last note linger. And as the microphone drops, as she doubles over, hugging herself, there’s another crash.

Emori spins, disbelieving, but it's real, it's real, Murphy’s turning.

And on his face…she can’t read the expression. It’s awe and it’s wonder and she’s sure that her face doesn’t match her voice, but he’s looking at her like maybe it does and Emori breaks her eyes away. She’s laughing now, like she hasn’t in a while.

All of the judges are on their feet, applauding and she can’t handle it, can’t handle this.

She turns back to the band, nodding at them, thank you, thank you, and they understand.

As she turns again to the chairs, the crowd quiets as Harper holds out her hands.

“I just have to say,” she calls, and the people still yelling find their seats again. “I just want to say that I turned first, okay? Remember that?”

Of course she’ll remember that? She’ll remember it forever; Harper McIntyre turned around because she had to see who was singing. Harper McIntyre turned around for her.

“Thank you so much,” Emori says, her voice breathless.

“What’s your name?” Thelonious asks.

“Emori,” she says, clearing her throat.

“Emori?” he echoes, making sure he got it right, before standing, facing the audience. “Remember. That. Name.” He calls and they all cheer and Emori shakes her head; this is unreal. Jaha’s arms are out and everyone quiets. “They need to remember that. What we saw here today was so special. So special, thank you for sharing that with us.”

“No, thank you,” Emori says quickly. Thelonious Jaha thanking her? This isn’t real.

He shakes his head. “I mean that. I turned, right away—”

“But I was first!” Harper pipes, and the audience laughs good-naturedly.

“Right away,” he continues, “because I heard in your voice something so special. So…honest and raw and genuine and I would love to keep hearing it.”

Cheers break out again and Emori might have whispered a thank you into the microphone but she can’t remember because then Becca is leaning forward.

“Emori,” she says carefully, the tips of her fingers pressed together and her dark eyes intense. “Thelonious is right, you have to know that. That was beautiful. The quality of your voice is insane, so rich and, again, I agree, so _full_. But, I have to say, that Thelonious was also wrong.”

“Now this, I’m here for,” Murphy interjects, and the crowd laughs. Emori can’t look at him just yet, and Becca is staring at her so intently.

“He was wrong, because we shouldn’t just hear you, okay, we need to share you. Pick me, please pick me, let me work with your voice. We can do so much, I know it, and it’s going to be even more beautiful.”

“Oh what,” Harper cuts in, as the yelling dies down again. “What’re you going to teach her, Becca?”

“I don’t teach, Miss McIntyre,” Becca says primly, “I cultivate.”

The crowd reacts and Harper makes a face. “Emori, you don’t need a teacher. What you did just now—the caliber of your performance, your tone, your style—I can’t improve on that. What I can do, is show you how to make it in this industry. I’m not training you for Met Opera, okay. I’ve got a much bigger stage in mind.”

A yell goes up and Emori really doesn’t know how she’s still breathing.

“Thank you,” she says softly, “Thank you both so much.”

“John,” Jaha says, “you’re awfully quiet down there.”

The studio quiets and everyone turns to the end of the row. Murphy is sitting sideways on the chair, his legs over the arm of it, and he straightens slowly.

“I didn’t turn right away,” he says carefully, and Harper guffaws.

“That’s a bit of an understatement,” Becca says, and he waves his hand at them.

“I didn’t turn,” he continues, and Emori can’t look away. There’s nothing extraordinary about him, just a man with a good voice and a hand for guitars, but something in his eyes, on his tongue, is holding her. “Because I didn’t think to.”

There’s a gasp around the studio and Harper slumps back in her chair.

“That’s what you did,” Murphy says, emphatic. “It wasn’t just beautiful, like Jaha says, or pristine, like Becca does. And yeah, you could play stadiums like Harper, but what I heard, just now, that was transportive. I forgot I was here, forgot what I was doing, literally all I could do was listen to your voice.”

Everyone is screaming and Emori looks down. It’s all surreal, that’s why she feels every word from him in her soul, in the center of her.

“How’re we suppose to compete with this?” Harper laments, and Thelonious chuckles.

“John’s quite the sweet talker when he wants to be,” he concedes.

“Harper didn’t mean his words,” Becca cuts in, voice laughing, “she meant the heart eyes.”

Emori doesn’t think she’s blushed in years, but she’s pretty sure she flushes heavily when Becca laughs. The studio laughs too, and then there’s some whistling, and Emori has to join in.

“Emori,” Harper cuts in, “We all love you, obviously.”

“Some more than others…” Becca interrupts pointedly, but Murphy just shrugs and runs a hand through his hair as Harper continues.

”But we’ve got to go to commercial, so you’ve got ten seconds to pick your coach.”

Everyone is yelling names and Emori wishes they’d yell louder because how is she supposed to make a choice like this? She brushes her hair out of her face and looks down the line of people.

The man who chooses heart.

The woman who believed in her first.

The woman who represents an art form.

The man who forgot everything but her.

The studio is still yelling but her heart is quiet, and Emori smiles as she lifts the microphone again.

“You’re all such inspirations to me,” she says honestly, meaning it with every part of her. “I’m not just saying that; thank you for listening to me and for hearing me. I’ll never forget this.”

“Who’s it going to be, Emori?” Thelonious asks gently.

“For my coach, I pick…”

She looks down the line again; dark brown eyes, warm hazel eyes, deep hazel eyes, blue eyes.

Murphy’s gonna love you, the producer had said.

Maybe he is.

But she's going to find out.

She's going to get out.

She's on this show, out of this town, away from this life. Someone had better grab her ankles.

Emori smiles broadly.

“John.”


End file.
